


Paper cut

by nutsforwinter



Series: Close [4]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:38:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutsforwinter/pseuds/nutsforwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Numbers quickly looked down to hide his face. “Dear God.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper cut

The storm was well on its way to the next town by the time the pair made it in to the safety of their shared motel room. Having been caught by the brunt of the rainfall, both hit men were thoroughly soaked. Wrench didn’t mind the rain, and Numbers knew that he considered it another one of life’s small gifts of joy when he had the fortune to be caught in it. It would be an understatement to say that Numbers was more irritated than his partner by the unexpected encounter with nature. He ran his hands through his thick hair, which was damp enough to stay put without the product that had been washed away, and began shrugging off his clinging jacket and shirt as he moved past Wrench toward the bathroom. It was a tacit agreement, and his partner would wait his turn.

He was working shampoo into his hair when he felt an acute stinging in his right hand. Unpleasantly surprised, he peered through the steam to discover a jagged cut oozing blood in the webbed skin between his thumb and index finger. Numbers only had to retrace his steps five minutes into the past to deduce that the culprit had been the room key he had blindly fumbled for with his cold numb fingers.

He could feel the pressure building up in the nape of his neck, working its way up behind his eyes. Nothing irritated him more than pain; not so much the kind of pain that was so blinding it was all one could do to scream, but the kind of pain that was negligible yet impossible to ignore. Like a paper cut. And today, with the fresh assignment that promised to be an absolute headache, the car that stalled and had to be abandoned a mile from the motel, the resulting animosity between him and his partner, and the rainstorm which had only hung around long enough to take a thorough piss on the two, was not a good day to deal with anything like a paper cut.

“Fuck!” he exploded in an uncontrolled burst of anger, striking the wall with the side of his fist. It was times like these he was thankful Wrench was deaf.

Numbers began performing deep breathing exercises to quell his nerves and the rest of the shower passed in relative safety. He cut off the water, and with the renewed throbbing belatedly realized he had done so with his injured hand.

“Motherfucker.”

***

Wrench hadn’t even bothered to take off his fringe coat. He was sitting on the foot of his bed enjoying captioned television when Numbers emerged from the bathroom in a towel, releasing a cloud of steam that was visible for a full two seconds.

Numbers shut the door behind him and made for the black pouch that was less a first aid kit than a haphazard stash of various painkillers. Upon finding they didn’t have any Band-Aids in it, he settled for a piece of gauze and swabbed alcohol over his cut before taping it onto his hand. It was by no means a serious injury, but he wanted it gone as soon as possible. And God forbid he let it bleed onto any of his shirts or jackets.

He straightened up from his finished work and was surprised to see Wrench had turned in his seat to watch him.

 _You hurt?_ Wrench asked. His raised eyebrows were furrowed in curiosity and concern.

The amount of attention his partner paid him was something Numbers had yet to become used to; it still disconcerted and sometimes even annoyed him whenever Wrench showed signs of worry on his behalf.

 _No,_ he signed curtly, noting that his reaction was leaning more towards anger this time. _Don’t worry about it._

Wrench responded with a shrug and a hint of laughter sparkled in his eyes. _That’s definitely not what you were saying when I was getting that bullet out of your ass cheek._

Numbers quickly looked down to hide his face. “Dear God.”

 _I said thank you, didn’t I?_ He was trying to brush it off jokingly, but he shuddered at the recollection of the painful and embarrassing memory, months in the past but still raw.

A chuckle escaped Wrench’s habitually closed lips, one of few. Normally he would have sat still for a moment, appreciating the endearing sound from the normally silent man, but this time Numbers felt a blush creeping warmly up his forehead, which only aggravated his mood. He stood up abruptly and motioned toward the closed door.

 _It’s your turn to have the bathroom,_ he signed, eager to have some more time alone, away from Wrench’s unsettling scrutiny.

Numbers now stood a full head taller than the seated Wrench. Instead of getting up, Wrench remained planted on the bed, staring at his bare midriff with wide eyes.

 _What the hell is that?_ he pointed to a spot to the right of his navel. _Knife wound?_

Startled and thrown off guard, Numbers forgot all of his irritation and looked down, his beard colliding with his chest. He was met with a familiar scar, about three inches long, pale, and exaggeratedly puckered. It was bigger and uglier than the handful of other scars he could boast of, even the recent battle scar on his buttock. He realized Wrench was cooking up some horrific story behind the scar he had carried for most of his life, and his expression of awe was so childish, he couldn’t help but smile. He was quick to hide it with his hand.

 _Something like that,_ he said. _I got it when I was seven._

Against all odds, Wrench’s eyes widened even further. What could he be imagining now? Numbers fought to suppress his sudden onset of good humor. He made a show of rolling his eyes, not willing to give Wrench the satisfaction of improving his day.

 _A-P-P-E-N-D-E-C-T-O-M-Y,_ he explained.

This time, his partner’s eyes narrowed in skepticism.

 _Appendectomy scars don’t look like that,_ he frowned, showing Numbers the sign for the medical procedure.

 _They did when I was seven,_ Numbers retorted. What he didn’t explain was that the surgeon, sought out in an emergency, had been cut-rate, and nobody had realized this until the incision site became so badly infected that he had to be cut open again. A story for another time, perhaps. He made a mental note to disinfect the cut on his hand again before bed.

_Damn, are you THAT old?_

He should have seen that coming.

_And what are you, a fucking kid?_

Great, now the both of them were grinning like idiots.

 _Hurry up and go so I can put on some pants,_ Numbers signed, trying to assume a more stern countenance.

_Yeah, yeah._

Wrench reluctantly switched off the television and slowly lumbered toward the bathroom, damp fringes and all.

“Oh shit!” Numbers lunged forward and grabbed Wrench’s arm in the nick of time. He hesitated when Wrench turned and looked inquiringly with a raised eyebrow. “Um…”

 _I should probably clean up in there._ He paused, then realized the necessity for a justification. _There’s glass on the floor._

Wrench’s other eyebrow crept up, both suspended on his forehead in a profound lack of wonder. _You broke the mirror._ It wasn’t a question.

Numbers sighed through his teeth. _I broke the mirror._ It wasn’t a confession.


End file.
